The Golden Hour
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: John tries to get Sherlock to appreciate the changing of the seasons, but along the way, something different changes. Four snippets of moments in each of the seasons.


Spring

The drops of rain that speckled across the long paned window looked like polka dots painted in silver, stippled delicately over a grey canvas. John stood idly by the weathered glass barrier with a steaming mug of Earl Grey clasped in his palms. He breathed in the scent of honey and bergamot, letting it subtly relax his thoughts until his eyes dripped closed.

"John, are you even listening?" The detective's sharp baritone quickly snapped the doctor out of his reverie.

"Mm, yeah, sorry, what were you saying?" John sipped his tea, turning to face his flatmate who was sitting upright on the sofa with an open case file strewn about the coffee table.

"I was saying how the suspect might be leading us in a false direction, giving us fake clues…"

"How do you figure?"

"Did you not hear any of the information I just spewed out?"

"Well it's not my fault you sound like you're talking to yourself half the time."

"I do not—doesn't matter, just sit down; we need to figure this out."

"You know contrary to popular belief I do, at times, enjoy standing."

"Yes, well, contrary to popular belief, I do, at times, need you to be closer."

"What's the big deal? It's like a three feet difference," John motioned to the space between himself and the nearest armchair.

"It is a big deal because when you stand there you stare out the window and start daydreaming and now is not the time to fantasize about couples in romantic comedies kissing in the rain."

"I was not—"

"Not the time, John, please, sit," Sherlock held a hand out to the maroon armchair.

John huffed in agreement and settled down.

"You know, just for the record, I wasn't _daydreaming_ I was just…watching."

Sherlock stopped, put his papers down and looked up at John with a bewildered stare.

"Watching what?"

John shrugged his shoulders.

"The seasons change."

"John, I don't believe you can literally observe the exact moment in which—"

"That's not what I meant, I was just thinking…it's technically spring now, and with the rain, I dunno, it's different."

"Different how? No, never mind, back to the case, John."

The doctor sighed, sinking deeper into the cushion. "Right then. Now what was it you were you going on about before?"

Sherlock was at his bedside before he could even register what had been happening.

"You were doing it again." The dark-haired man stated flatly in John's quiet, moonlit bedroom as he towered over the side of the bed.

The doctor tried to catch his breath as he clasped the duvet tighter around his fist. "S-sorry…won't happen again." He panted.

"You said that last time."

John sighed, turning to face Sherlock, and gave him a weak smile, "And I'll say it again next time."

"Move over." The detective ordered quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

"I realize at times you can misunderstand things but I am fairly certain you're not deaf."

"Maybe I'm misunderstanding then."

"Perhaps I should illustrate this visually."

"Huh?"

Without another word, Sherlock promptly kneeled down onto John's bed, forcing the shorter man to shuffle over, and the detective lay himself down atop the covers. He placed his hands over his dress shirt-covered chest and breathed contentedly.

"Sherlock, mind telling me what you're doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're still having night terrors, and you have a habit of kicking in your sleep, which you and I both know causes an unnecessary amount of commotion, and I've gathered that having another presence with you can calm your nerves quite considerably."

"Oh, right…uhm, thanks?"

"Not a problem, I was beginning to realize that perhaps it was time I take a break from the case for a moment anyhow, give my mind a chance to digest, if you will."

"So you're not gonna sleep then?"

"No, I was planning on talking to you until you fell asleep, it sounded effective enough."

"Oh, well, uhm," John shifted a tad uncomfortably under the covers, readjusting himself in this new position, "what did you want to talk about?"

"Actually, I was curious…"

"Yeah?"

"Earlier, when you said you were 'watching the seasons change', I wasn't quite sure what you meant."

"Hm, dunno really. I was just thinking how this past winter had been so dry and bitter, then spring comes along and it's like the air's changed. And now the rain, except it's warm rain, damp and humid…almost seems out of place."

"Huh, I suppose I didn't notice the change."

"What, do you just ignore the seasons?"

Sherlock shrugged silently. "Never paid much mind to it."

"But then, how do you see everything? The city I mean, is there just no shift in atmosphere for you?"

The detective was quiet for a moment before speaking in a voice barely above a whisper,

"London has always looked the same to me; grey, a concrete slab splattered with life. The people, the splotches of color, dripping, sinking in between the sidewalk cracks."

John took a moment to think and rest his eyes.

"Do you know what Sherlock?" he asked with an edge of drowsiness in his voice.

"Yes?"

"You look at things so closely, that I bet you've never truly seen anything at all."

Sherlock turned to face his flatmate, who he found to be huddled up beneath the sheets, his eyes closed softly.

"Goodnight, John."

"Night, Sherlock," he whispered.

* * *

Summer

John circled the date in the calendar with red marker and smiled.

"Today's the big day, Sherlock." He said over his shoulder as the detective padded about the kitchen in his tartan dressing gown. He yawned involuntarily before speaking up.

"I fail to understand the social normality of suggesting the size of one day relative to another. Technically speaking—"

"Technically speaking, I made toast and you're gonna eat it, and you know what today is."

"Mm," Sherlock started as he absentmindedly crunched down on the edge of a piece of toast, "yes, the summer solstice. The axial tilt of the earth—"

"Yes yes, science-y jargen, I know, but you know what I meant. I swore I'd get you to notice the changes in seasons and I'm gonna stick to it."

"What for? S'all the same to me," He muttered as he headed to the living room to grab a few medical encyclopedias from the shelf before setting them down on the coffee table.

"It's not all the same, and I think once you've finally had a better look around you might appreciate the world a little more."

"Mm, the world, dull." He rolled his eyes as his finger scanned over a page.

"Right, everything's _dull_ or _tedious_ or _John this is so mind-numbingly obvious I think my leg's fallen asleep due to boredom_."

"Glad you understand. Now, come, I need you to help me rifle through these, we might be able to get some clues as to what was in that poison Walters used."

John grunted. "Couldn't you deduce that at the lab? It's barely past eight in the morning and we were up practically all night with Lestrade going over this."

"I told you I've already tried the lab, came up empty, now," Sherlock gestured with his hand for John to come join him.

The doctor mumbled incoherently and abandoned the idea of making tea, going to join his flatmate in the sitting room.

"_Foxglove!"_ the detective snapped irritably, still eyeing the purple flowers resting gingerly on their suspect's windowsill. "I've seen the scenario a thousand times! It's been in books, on television, how did I miss this?" he whined to John as Lestrade put Walters in handcuffs.

"Maybe it seemed too obvious?" John suggested.

"There's no such thing as _too_ obvious, John! It must have been that toast you forced down my throat this morning, I thought I told you food does nothing but distract me."

"I'm sorry '_forced down your throat_' are you kidding me? You picked that up on your own volition and—"

"Listen fellas," Lestrade started as he headed back over to the pair, "as much as I'd love to hear your witty banter this _is_ still a crime scene and I'm gonna need you two to come down to the Yard for the usual paperwork, yeah?"

"Fine, but he started it," Sherlock murmured.

"Are you serious?" John shot back, "You're bloody brilliant for a five-year-old you know that?"

"Boys?"

"Sorry Lestrade, we'll head down in a cab, no worries," John assured.

The dull heat of the late summer sun was resting gently on John and Sherlock's shoulders as they made their way back to Baker Street on foot. John had his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his thin jacket as he looked up at his friend, so intently focused in his stride.

"So, poisonous plants then, hm? What would you say, a six maybe?" the doctor asked with a tired grin.

Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly. Barely a four, at best. I still can't believe I didn't see the pattern…a case like this would've normally taken me a few hours at maximum, perhaps my brain is slowly rotting with all the crap telly you make me watch."

"Again, I do not _make_ you do anything. In fact, you were the one who plopped down next to me on the sofa the other night and asked if we had any 'not awful' movies."

"That was to clear my head so I could think, focus on a mundane task, simple."

"Mm," was John's muffled reply as his eyes scanned the flurry of movement that surrounded them.

He watched as the bustle of strangers whirred on, without interruption, without hesitation. Nameless faces, countless colors, ambiguous noise. He smiled to himself.

"It's summer John." Sherlock stated.

"Yes, yes it is, glad you remembered."

"What I mean is, it's technically summer, and I don't see the difference. Today feels just the same as yesterday."

"It is different, you just can't see it."

"What do you mean?"

Suddenly John stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Sherlock stopped a few paces ahead when he registered his blogger wasn't at his side. John held out his hand, gestured toward the way they just came and said,

"Come with me, I'll show you how things change."

Sherlock didn't respond, he just stepped forward, and clasped his hand into John's.

The shop was small, delicate, every object seemingly covered in an imaginary layer of dust. A tiny bell chimed as John and Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. John's fingers still weaved around Sherlock's as he pulled him further indoors.

It was an ancient, raggedy antique store. The stained velvet carpet felt smooth under their boots, and there was an indiscernible smell in the air that could only be categorized as 'old books'. Miscellaneous items were cast about every shelf, as if it were the resting place of all misfit belongings.

They took all of this information in an instant, and before Sherlock could shoot out a question, John was making conversation with the quaint, elderly looking man behind the counter.

"John! Oh, how long's it been? Bringing a friend up this time eh?" The silver-haired man smirked in Sherlock's direction.

"You know me Rowan, summer's here, better get up before it's gone," John grinned and the old man smiled wide in return.

John then continued to drag Sherlock gently along by his hand, leading him to a small door in the back of the shop that revealed a long, narrow staircase inside.

"Who was that? John, why do you have connections that I don't?" Sherlock questioned as they ascended up the weathered wooden steps.

"Oh just hush, and follow me." John reassured.

When they reached the top, they were greeted with a cramped, shabby, mostly empty room.

"An old flat?" Sherlock deduced.

"Yeah, it's never been rented out though, just used for storage. Come on, it's on the fire escape,"

"What is?"

The detective was still being guided by John's fingers until they reached the window, and John let go to open it and help himself out onto the rusted makeshift balcony. When it was Sherlock's turn to come out, the doctor wrapped both his arms around his friend's back, hugging him tightly as he helped pull him outside.

The two huffed and straightened themselves before standing by the edge of the gate, looking out onto what was to John, one of the most beautiful views of the city he'd ever seen. The two were silent for a moment as they absorbed the sight, and Sherlock grabbed onto John's hand again.

"What is it?" the detective asked.

"It's called the golden hour." John said, staring out into the blissful image of a gilded sun, surrounded by an intoxicating warm, deep yellow glow.

"The golden hour," Sherlock repeated.

"Yes, it's the first and last hour of sunlight during the day, and I think it's the most brilliant in the summer."

"It's…interesting…really." Sherlock practically whispered.

John looked up at the taller man, and couldn't suppress his enchantment with the way the yellow light mixed with the blue of his eyes, turning them a vibrant lime green colour. John looked back out over the railing,

"The city looks covered in gold, like the whole place is one big precious metal." He said quietly.

"How does this suggest change?"

"Like I said, it's only this spectacular during the summertime; in fact it's the only time of the year I come up here."

"You...you come up here by yourself?"

"Yeah, Rowan's an old friend of my family's, he's had the shop for ages and he used to let me sneak up here to see the sunset when I was little."

"That's awfully sentimental John, a tad much for my taste, if you ask me."

John just chuckled dryly.

After a few moments of warm silence, Sherlock looked down at the hand entwined with his, then back out toward the sun.

"A city covered in gold," he said, and then looked down at John, whose hair was the color of sand at sunset, and his eyes like venetian blue crystals, "one big precious metal."

* * *

Autumn

John heard it as he flew through the alleyway, the unmistakable _crunch_ and _crackle_ of dried up leaves under his feet. He ran, panting, trying to ignore the sharp snaps and cracks that sounded far too similar to the shattering of bones, and turned another corner.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the dank passageway.

He could hear slight shuffling from around the bend, and quick, hushed voices. Slowly and carefully, he peered over the edge of the wall, finding the notorious detective finishing handcuffing their suspect.

"Oh, John! Good of you to join us, have you met Mr. Anders?" the criminal grunted and struggled with the cuffs as Sherlock held him down.

"Erm…" John stuttered, trying to catch his breath, "Lestrade on his way?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. This was too easy, John!" Sherlock grinned.

"Right, okay, need any help?"

"He is a fidgety one; I suppose I could use some assistance restraining him."

John grinned quickly and bent down to help keep their suspect under control.

By the time Lestrade's team came and went, John was sitting with his back against the cool redbrick of the wall behind him, watching as Sherlock made his way back into the alley.

"What on earth are you doing?" he questioned.

"I'm sitting, Sherlock, look whose deduction skills are lacking now."

"Oh hush John you know what I meant."

"Sorry, just exhausted."

"From what?"

"You do realize I tripped, right? While we were running. You kept running."

"Ah, that would explain your tardiness."

"_Sherlock_," he whined.

The dark-haired man let out a big huff and suddenly snapped down in front of John, lifting up his jeans and feeling around his ankles.

"What the hell are you doing?!" John gasped as he yanked his ankle back.

"Checking for injury, obviously." And he continued to survey the doctor's limbs, muttering incoherently to himself. "Hm, you seem to be fine, how wonderful."

"Sherlock," John stared up at the detective, noticing for what seemed like the first time that his friend wasn't wearing a jacket, just a dress shirt and thin, unbuttoned blazer, "you're not wearing a coat."

"Are we back to pointing out the obvious again?"

"That wasn't a statement it was more of a question. You know damn well it's autumn now and it's chilly as all hell, how are you not cold?"

"Autumn, already? Hm, that was fast. I suppose the air is a bit chilled. Odd."

"What d'you mean 'that was fast' I told you three weeks ago that summer was over."

"Oh, my apologies. Come on now," the detective stood, holding out a hand for John to grab on to, "up, let's get back to the flat; I've got approximately three experiments waiting."

John held on tight to Sherlock's grip as he helped him up, brushing himself off as they began to walk.

"Oh, hey," John started, rifling through his pockets and pulling out a pair of gloves, "here, put these on; don't want those boney fingers freezing off,"

Sherlock grabbed the gloves somewhat violently, "My fingers are not _boney,_ they're _lean_."

"You're welcome," the doctor smiled.

"I didn't say thank you."

"Didn't have to,"

"You said three experiments." John stated as he sat on the left side of the sofa, his elbow perched on the armrest.

He looked away from the television, which was just about the only source of light in the flat, and glanced down at his flatmate who was positively curled up next to him, a few stray curls just barely brushing against John's thigh.

"Mmh," was his response.

John fidgeted with his lip with one hand, the other resting on his knee, fingers tapping lightly. "You said three," he repeated.

In lieu of answering, Sherlock just sniffled and shifted perhaps a centimeter closer to John.

"I saw you working in the kitchen and I could've sworn I only saw two experiments going, so what was the third?"

"Tired, John…" the detective grumbled in a harsh, exhausted voice.

John laughed dryly, then absentmindedly began running his fingers through the dark raven curls. Sherlock hummed contentedly and pulled his dressing gown tighter over his frame.

"You should be tired," John whispered, low and soft, "you run yourself rampant, I swear. It's a wonder you've still got enough energy to insult Anderson…" Sherlock's hair felt smooth as John's fingers weaved their way through, entangling themselves in the dark chocolate brown locks.

"And you should really wear a coat," John said quietly, perhaps to himself, "you could be in the middle of a blizzard in just a t-shirt and not admit you're cold…but I know you."

John listened as Sherlock's breathing evened out, until it was slow and deep and relaxed.

"Tomorrow I'm going to show you the best part of autumn." John promised.

"Remind me again why we're going to the park." Sherlock complained with his fists in his coat pockets, wearing John's gloves.

"I told you last night, whether you heard me or not is hardly my fault." John teased as they walked further down the street. This time when the dead leaves crunched beneath his feet, John felt content with the sound.

"You're starting to sound like me, John."

"Should I be happy or terrified?"

"I'd be terrified; London can barely handle one of me."

"Got that right. And if I tell you why we're going to the park you'll just turn around in a huff, so just keep on, and no more questions. I'm still surprised I managed to get you out of the house."

"John, you could have told me we were going to the petting zoo and I would have come with you, I think I was quite literally dying of boredom."

"Right, well, just follow me."

"Always." He said quickly.

"A bench. You brought me here to sit on a bench." Sherlock said irritably as he and John sat just a few inches apart on a withered park bench.

"Close, but no,"

"Alright then, what am I supposed to be doing?"

"Nothing. Last night I told you I wanted to show you my favorite part of autumn."

"Hmph. I should've known this was all a part of your convoluted opinions about the changing weather."

"You probably _did_ know, and you could've very well stayed home."

"I was _bored_, John. Now, what is it that's so fascinating about this season?"

"Look around," John gestured to the multitude of trees that surrounded them, "what do you see?"

"A park,"

"I guess I'm just gonna have to spell it out," he pointed to a tall oak tree, covered in hues of orange and gold, "the trees Sherlock, the changing leaves, it's the best part."

"I don't follow."

"Just look, don't examine the type of bark on the tree, quit analyzing what phase the leaves are in, and really, honestly, just look. Tell me what you see."

"I see a tree, John."

"That's a start; now tell me what you feel."

"I'm sorry?"

"Really look Sherlock, what's the first thing that comes to mind? No science, no deductions, just your pure, unedited reaction."

"Alright...I see a painting."

"A painting?"

"Yes, the trees are brilliantly colored, coordinated in a way that one might think it was done by the hand of a skilled artist. The leaves themselves are like individual brushstrokes, moving swiftly, swiping over the canvas as they sway in the breeze."

"That's...yes, I like that. I like that a lot." And then, without the slightest hesitation, John let his head fall softly onto Sherlock's shoulder.

He closed his eyes sleepily, and let his lungs fill with the crisp, undefinable scent of autumn.

* * *

Winter

"John, again with the daydreaming?" Sherlock asked as he sat cross-legged by the glowing fire, a barrage of dusty books sprawled out before him.

The doctor barely batted an eyelid at the comment, and continued to watch the flurries of snowflakes trickle down onto the pavement. A silent army, sent from the sky, building up slowly and forever feigning innocence.

John could relate to the snow; seemingly delicate, fragile, homely, and then, without warning, a blizzard, an avalanche, destruction of the most unexpected nature.

"John?" he asked again.

"Oh, sorry, you know me, romantic comedies and all that." He smiled weakly back at his friend, and went back to watching the white dots spill over the charcoal grey sky.

"In case you were wondering," Sherlock began, "I am very much aware that it is winter."

"Mm, what was your first clue?"

"Very funny, now please John, we can giggle like schoolgirls at the majestic snowflakes later, you agreed to help me with these cold cases."

"Did I? Must've been drugged," he mused as he joined Sherlock on the floor, immediately relishing in the soft warmth of the flames as they hugged his side.

"Here, you take these," Sherlock placed a handful of yellow-paged books in front of John's feet, "I've got volumes one through four."

"Sherlock, how old are these books anyway? You sure they're still accurate?"

"Don't be daft, of course some things are out of date, but you're forgetting these were the very same books that Doctor Radson had on his shelves."

"Ah, how silly of me,"

"Silly indeed, now let's get started."

For a while the two sat in companionable silence, scanning through pages, rifling through chapters, and listening to the wood in the fire creak and cackle as it burned. The only other sound that could be heard was the light flick of Sherlock's wrist as he constantly flipped his unruly curls out of his vision.

The next time Sherlock tried to move his hair out of the way, John looked up, Sherlock did as well, and their eyes met somewhere in the middle. John just grinned, leaned over and gently brushed aside a stray curl.

Sherlock cleared his throat quietly and glanced back down at the page.

"John!" He exclaimed, one lean finger pointing to a specific section, "I've got it! This is the exact chapter; I knew I'd find it! Wait until Lestrade gets an earful of how right I was."

"You know if it weren't for you looking like you just came downstairs on Christmas morning I'd say you were rude."

The detective stood, rushing to get his greatcoat on, "And if it weren't for you still sitting there we could be on our way to the Yard! Quick John, we've got Lestrades to disprove and Andersons to annoy."

"And Donovans to piss off?"

"Exactly! No time to waste!"

And within what seemed like seconds they were both bundled up and out the door, into the falling snow.

For a while it was quiet.

Neither John nor Sherlock said a word as they trudged down the street, the snowfall reduced to a light dusting. The new fallen snow was just up to their ankles, and barely anyone had been out to step in it yet.

"So…no cab then." John passive aggressively complained as he scrunched his shoulders up to his neck in an effort to keep warmer.

"It's snowing John, everyone is taking a cab. We'd spend more time waiting on a corner for one than just sucking it up and walking."

"Still…" John shivered.

"Here," Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and began removing his navy blue scarf.

John didn't say a word as the detective leaned down and fixed the fabric around his neck, tucking it neatly under his chin, even zipping his jacket up a little further.

"Oh, uhh…" the doctor mumbled.

"It's alright," Sherlock said as he held his hands up, still dawning John's gloves, "I've got something of yours too."

"You…still have those?" John asked as they began their stride again.

"Apparently so,"

"Huh…" the shorter man looked down at his shoes, watching as every step he took left an imprint behind, putting wrinkles in the delicate sheet of white. "I never quite like walking in the snow right after it falls." He said.

"Why's that?"

"I always feel like I'm interrupting something, like I've, dunno, disturbed the natural balance or something,"

"Things can only stay perfect for so long, John."

"I know…It's kind of interesting though, it's the only time of year you can turn around and see exactly how far you've come."

"Yes, people leave impressions," Sherlock stopped, then stared down at John, "and footprints, too."

For a moment John just stared in quiet confusion at the taller man's wintergreen eyes, and lagged behind a bit as Sherlock began to walk again.

"I'm sorry I woke you again," John breathed into the darkness of his room.

Sherlock lay beside him, having just finished quietly tucking himself in.

"It's quite alright. I have to say I'm just about getting used to laying in here. Somehow your mattress manages to feel more comfortable than mine."

John thought for a moment, "Aren't they the same bed?"

"Yes."

"Oh…well, yeah, again I know this must seem ridiculous, a grown man with nightmares. And somehow I always seem to wake you just when you've _finally_ decided to get some sleep."

"It's not a problem John; I'd say this is a vast upgrade from lying on the sofa."

"I wish you wouldn't sleep there, I know how it hurts your neck, whether or not you tell me."

"D'you know, I just might start calling you the consulting doctor,"

"What's that supposed to mean?" John turned his head on his pillow to face Sherlock.

"You're always diagnosing, under the table, seeing people's pains, perhaps even before they do. You deduce my ailments much like I deduce people's history, you observe."

"Consulting doctor…dunno, sounds a bit dodgy if you ask me."

"In that case, we may as well stick with 'John'; it seems to be working out quite nicely."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

The detective let out a low, breathy chuckle.

"Thank you, by the way," John added.

"For what?"

"For…this. Talking with me until I sleep, it's…nice."

"A shame it only happens after you're half scared to death."

"Oh, er…mhm." John just nodded and pulled the covers up more, his eyes beginning to get weary.

After a short silence, Sherlock turned to face the shorter man.

"Things have been changing, John." He said.

"Yes, the weather has proved to have quite the fickle heart."

"No," he moved closer to John, "I've changed," slowly, he wrapped an arm around the doctor's chest, "we've changed," and then, he reached out his hand, gently cupping John's stubble-covered face, and planted a warm, soft kiss on his cheek, "for the better." He added.


End file.
